


Blood and Laughter

by bboiseux



Series: Critical Role Campaign 2 [9]
Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: C2E008, Canon-Typical Violence, Childhood, Gen, LLF Comment Project, beatings, does it really count as a drabble anymore?, early life, grapes, just some thoughts I had about Beau, linked drabbles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-04
Updated: 2018-03-04
Packaged: 2019-03-26 18:28:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13863456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bboiseux/pseuds/bboiseux
Summary: There are some moments of her childhood that Beau will never forget.  These are four of them.A series of interconnected moments that form a portrait of Beau.





	Blood and Laughter

**Author's Note:**

> No plot, just sensations. Thoughts about Beau.

When Beau was younger—when she was smaller than she is now—she’d wander through the vineyard.  It was a regiment of vines and poles and wires.  In the summer, before the harvest time descended on the fields, the sun would beat down on the dusty paths between each line.  It felt warm on her skin, even as it baked her darker.  Wandering all day, she’d return home, clothes coated in a fine layer of dirt, the smell of dry loam and manure in her nose, and skin peeling.  The dirt would be deep under her fingernails and her hair and clothes would be matted with sweat.  She would stink of the earth and exertion.  Her mother would frown and rush her off to a bath.

In the harvest season, when the townsfolk descended on the vineyard for the extra work, Beau would race to the furthest end of the fields and hoard fistfuls of grapes for herself.  She would shove them in her shirt.  Hot from the sun, their skins stuck to her sweat, they would make her even stickier, leaving violet and scarlet explosions across her chest and belly.  She would climb over the fence at the edge of the vineyard and then climb one of the largest trees until she was shaded by the dense leaves.  She would settle into a crook in the tree where she couldn’t see the vineyard and no one at the vineyard could see her.  Nestled there, she would pull the fistfuls free from her shirt, ignoring the stains that spread on the expensive clothes, and pop them into her mouth one at a time.  She would hold the grape between her teeth, feeling it tense as she slowly bit down, feeling the pressure as it bulged, until it couldn’t change anymore.  Then it would burst and the sickly-sweet juice would flood her tongue and, with a gulp, it would disappear down her throat.  She would do that for hours.  She would come home at dusk and be hurried off again by her mother, “before her father saw her.”

When she was older—about the size she is now—she cut her hair short for the second time.  (The first time she had been six and she couldn’t walk for a week because of the sting on her backside.  But she hadn’t cried.)  She did it in the afternoon, when no one else was in the house with a dull knife she had hidden under her mattress.  It had cut badly, the ends split, the line of the cut uneven, but she hadn’t particularly cared.  Her neck felt cool.  In the stables, she found the towns girl that made her cheeks feel warm and her lips feel numb and asked if she could kiss her.  Her lips were not sweet like grapes, but they were better.  Beau wished that she could taste her on her tongue.  Later, her father would find out and he would bring out the switch.  All twenty-eight of the strikes (two for each year she had darkened the world) would sear into her skin.  She would laugh.  (It would have been one for each year if she hadn’t.)

That was the year she would start fighting.  Her first punch was wide and loose, her fist glancing off the man’s shoulder, the pain flashing white in her eyes.   He had clenched his sausage link fingers into a meaty fist and smashed her across the jaw.  She’d fallen instantly, copper taste in her mouth, burning dirt in her eyes.  Her jaw didn’t feel right.  Later, her lip would swell up, a deep purple that kept her from eating for two days.  But at that moment she only heard the blood pounding in her ears and the anger in her chest.  When she stood, the man was already walking away, so she spit the foulest curse she could think of at his backside.  Her second punch was tight and neat, a dull smack into the man’s gut.  The punch wobbled up her arm, into her body, where it left a tightness in her lungs.  His next punch was even tighter and neater.  She would wake up a few minutes later, a rib broken from a kick to the side.  She would laugh then too.

**Author's Note:**

> I am also [bboiseux on tumblr](https://bboiseux.tumblr.com/).
> 
>  **Introduction**  
>  This story is part of [LLF Comment Project](https://longlivefeedback.tumblr.com/llfcommentproject), which was created to improve communication between readers and authors. This author invites and appreciates feedback, including:
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